TOM was perfectly satisfied with his day’s work—it could not have been better, he thought, even had he desired it; and, as he again took his stand on the quarter-deck and looked proudly over his cargo, he began to think that he had at last found the road to fortune. There were no obstacles in his way now; he thoroughly understood his business, and, better than all, he had no work to do. The man, whoever he was, that originated the old saying that “There is no excellence without labor,” didn’t know any thing about the matter, for it was sport for him to make bargains, pay out money, and count his profits. If other people were obliged to work, it was their own fault. Why didn’t they do as he had done, look about and find some way of making a living without labor? Following the life of a trader, even if he didn’t clear expenses, was much easier than going to school, and poring for six hours in the day over uninteresting lessons. That was all well enough for those who liked it; but, as for himself, he would show people that he could get along through the world without it. In short, Tom was delighted with the success that had attended his efforts, for the business was still new to him, and he had not yet found any thing unpleasant in it. He remained standing on his quarter-deck, now and then turning to the fisher-boy, who was seated at the helm, to give him some order in a loud voice, so that the farmer, who stood on the beach watching them, might understand that he was the captain of the vessel, but, as soon as the man returned to the house, Tom walked forward to look at his game chickens. The rooster, ever since he was put into the box, had crowed most lustily, showing that his was a spirit which could not be broken by confinement. Seeing Tom approach, he at once put himself into an attitude of defense; and when the young trader forced his hand between the bars on the box, he was saluted with a peck, and a blow from the rooster’s spurs that brought tears to his eyes. But Tom endured the pain without a murmur. He had received convincing proof that the fowl was thorough game, and this gratifying knowledge served as a balm for his wounds. He was, however, very careful not to put his hand inside the box again; but, wishing to make the rooster give a few more exhibitions of his pluck, Tom amused himself, for a long time, by tormenting him with a stick. Finally, growing weary of this sport, he walked aft, where the fisher-boy was seated, silent and thoughtful. He was thinking over the events of the day, and wondering if the results would meet the young trader’s expectations. Bob had made many and careful calculations concerning the very business in which they were then engaged, but his conclusions differed widely from those of Captain Newcombe’s. Although he could not hope to share in the profits, if the experiment proved a success, or be expected to bear part of the expenses, if it should be a failure, he was deeply interested in it. He hoped that Tom’s bright visions would be realized, but he thought he had good reason to fear that his employer would lose money. The young trader, however, was not troubled with any gloomy forebodings. He looked upon what he had done as perfectly correct, and he was unusually merry over it. He talked, laughed, and sang; and was so full of his fun that he could not sit still, but kept walking backward and forward over the boat, stopping now and then to explain matters to Bob, who, he plainly saw, did not agree with him. He again gave a full description of the manner in which he intended to conduct his business, always taking as his starting-point the assumed fact that he would “be certain to make ten dollars over and above all expenses every trip;” and, standing on one of the thwarts, with his hands in his pockets, he was endeavoring, for the twentieth time, to make Bob “see through his grand scheme,” when the fisher-boy suddenly pointed seaward, and interrupted him with—
“Just see there, captain!”
Tom looked in the direction indicated, and the sight that met his gaze drove all thoughts of business out of his head. A thick milk-white cloud, followed by one as black as midnight, was rapidly coming into view above the horizon, and, as the young trader looked up, he heard the low muttering of distant thunder. Captain Newcombe knew enough about storms to be well aware that the one then coming up promised to give him ample opportunity to test the sea-going qualities of his fine sloop. But he had no desire to be caught out in that storm; and one, to have seen him at that moment, would have been satisfied that he was wanting in a quality that was very necessary to enable him to fill the position of commander of a vessel—namely, courage. He knew that they were in danger, for the Mystery was fully a mile and a half from the shore, and, if the storm overtook her with all her sails spread, she would be capsized in a moment. This knowledge seemed to deprive him of all power of action; for he stood looking at the clouds, and listening to the peals of thunder that every instant came more plainly to his ears, as if he was at a loss to know what course to pursue.
To increase Tom’s dismay, he noticed that a vessel, which he had seen coming toward the harbor, had put about and was standing out to sea again, while her crew was engaged in taking in the topsails, and making every thing snug on board. Tom knew, by this, that her captain, deeming it unsafe to attempt to reach the harbor, which was a dangerous one to enter during a gale, had started seaward, intending to “lay off and on” until the storm should abate. When Captain Newcombe saw this maneuver, he knew that he ought to be doing something also; but the sight of that black cloud in the west disconcerted him, and he could not keep his wits about him long enough to determine what ought to be done. It was an easy thing to be master of a vessel in calm weather, but when a storm was brewing the case was different.
“Captain,” said the fisher-boy, “there’s the hurricane you whistled for this morning.”
“O, no,” drawled Tom; “now, don’t lay that on to me, for I didn’t whistle for as hard a one as this is going to be; I said I only wanted a little one.”
“Well,” said Bob, “I believe now that whistling will get up a storm. We’ll be in a bad fix if we don’t find shelter somewhere very soon. What shall we do, captain? Give your orders.”
“O, I’m sick,” answered Tom, looking up at the cloud, which seemed to rise more rapidly. “You be captain, and if any thing happens you can call me.”
Tom’s terror was great, but his pride was greater. He did not wish to acknowledge his utter inability to give the necessary orders, so he resorted to this expedient, to shift all the responsibility on Bob’s shoulders; and he thought that he was acting in a perfectly honorable manner; for, while he was on board the Savannah, he once heard the captain say to the first mate: “I am very unwell, and I wish you would take charge of the vessel; carry as much or as little sail as you please. If any thing happens, call me.” The captain then went down into the cabin, and kept his bed for two days, during which time the first mate sailed the schooner. So Tom, with this example before him, thought that he had a perfect right to turn the command of the Mystery over to his mate, if he chose to do so, and no one could question his motives.
Bob, at first, did not wish to take charge of the little vessel, but Tom insisted, saying:
“I will lie down here in the stern-sheets, and if any thing happens, you can call me.” And, suiting the action to the words, he stretched himself out at full length, and rested his head on his hands, as if he were very ill indeed.
“Well, then,” said the fisher-boy, “if I am the captain, I shall shape her course toward the shore and take in that topsail and flying-jib.”
“Do as you like,” replied Tom; “carry as much or as little sail as you please. I’m sick.”
The fisher-boy accordingly headed the Mystery toward the beach, and, again turning to Tom, said:
“Now, if I am the captain, you must be the crew.”
“O, no,” whined Tom, “I can’t.”
“Well, somebody must be the crew,” said Bob, looking rather anxiously toward the clouds. “Go aloft and take in that gaff topsail.”
“O, I can’t,” answered Tom. “Suppose the storm should come up before I got down, it would blow me overboard.”
“Then you steer the boat, and I’ll do it.”
“I can’t do that either; I’m sick.”
Bob was amazed, and utterly at a loss to know how to act. Those sails must come in, the sooner the better; for the chances were not one in ten that the Mystery could reach the shore, before the storm would burst upon them in all its fury. He was the captain of the vessel, but he was powerless, for his crew would not obey his orders, and he had no means of enforcing his commands. He could not leave the tiller, in order to take in the sails, neither could he lash it fast; for what little wind there was, was shifting, and somebody must be at the helm, in order to keep the sloop headed toward the shore.
For the first time, Bob felt a little alarmed, and, for a moment, he sat calculating his chances for reaching the shore, should the boat be capsized. But he knew that was no time for such thoughts. The question then was, How to save the vessel and cargo? The fisher-boy imagined that could be easily done, if Tom would only wake up and lend his assistance. But how was he to arouse the young skipper, who was so disgracefully deserting his vessel and crew, at a time when his services were most needed?
“Captain,” began the fisher-boy.
“O, I am not the captain, now, I tell you,” interrupted Tom. “You are the master of the Mystery. Do as you please.”
“But I must have help,” said Bob. “I can’t do every thing alone. If we don’t take in those sails very soon, we shall be swamped.”
“I can’t help that,” said Tom, looking up at the clouds with a most pitiful countenance.
“You must help it. What would you do if you were in the water, a mile and a half from the shore?”
“O, I don’t know. I’m sick.”
“You must work for your life, if you are sick,” said the fisher-boy.
Tom, however, made no reply, neither did he move from his position. Bob began to be discouraged. If the fear of losing his life would not induce the young trader to put forth some exertion, it was probable that nothing would. But there was one subject still untried, and at that moment it occurred to the fisher-boy.
“Captain—I mean Tom,” said he, “if we do capsize, what will become of your eggs, and butter, and your fine game chickens? You’ll have to look for your ten dollars profit at the bottom of the sea.”
“So I would!” exclaimed Tom, straightening himself up, all his sickness vanishing in an instant. “I can’t afford to lose those game chickens. They’re worth more than ten dollars to me. But, Bob, this is my last trip up the bay, I can tell you.”
The fisher-boy had succeeded in waking Tom up at last. The latter knew that not only his fine boat, but even his own life was in danger; but it was not until Bob reminded him of the loss he would sustain in his game chickens, in the event of the Mystery’s capsizing, that he got up, ready to lend assistance.
“Now, then,” said Bob, as the young trader took hold of the tiller, “hold her steady, and I’ll take in that gaff topsail.”
The topsail had formerly been arranged so that it could be spread or taken in from the deck; but this did not “look enough like a ship” to suit Tom, who, after considerable trouble, had made it as near as possible like the topsail of a schooner; so that when he wanted it taken in, some one had to go aloft to do it. It was sport for Tom to ascend the mast in fair weather, when the Mystery was made fast at her wharf; but he did not dare to attempt it at sea, in the face of a storm; so this duty devolved upon the fisher-boy, who went aloft, took in the sail, and threw it to the deck. Tom took more pride in his boat than in any thing else, and he always liked to see the canvas neatly stowed away; and had it been fair weather, he would have scolded Bob for not doing the topsail up properly. But an indistinct moaning sound, which came faintly to his ears, told him that the storm was rapidly approaching, and he was so terrified, and so anxious to reach the shore, that he hardly noticed the condition the sail was in. The fisher-boy then descended to the deck, and, in a few moments more, the flying-jib was securely stowed away, and a double reef taken in the mainsail. Then, after placing all the boxes, baskets, and pails under the thwarts, as much as possible out of the way, he again took his seat at the helm, which Tom readily gave up to him.
It was not Bob’s intention to land on the beach; for there, when the storm came, the Mystery would be in danger of being knocked to pieces by the waves, which always ran high during a gale. He had resolved, if possible, to run into a little cove about three miles from the village, where they could find safe anchorage for their vessel, let the wind blow never so hard. The fisher-boy thought he should be able to accomplish his object; for, as he took the helm, a slight breath of wind—the forerunner of the storm—filled the sails, and the Mystery began to move more rapidly. Stronger and stronger grew the breeze, causing the little vessel to careen, until she stood almost on her beam-ends, and straining the mast until it seemed about to break. Never before had the Mystery made such an exhibition of speed; but, fast as she went, the boys saw that the storm gained rapidly, and presently Bob pointed out a long line of foam in the horizon. The gale was fast approaching, and a few moments more would decide whether they would enter the cove—the mouth of which was but a short distance off—or be swamped on the beach. Nearer and nearer came the line of foam, stretching away on both sides of them as far as their eyes could reach; and finally, a strong gust of wind, which seemed to lift the little vessel fairly out of the water, filled the sails, and drove her toward the beach with great speed. Tom thought all was lost, and throwing himself flat in the bottom of the boat, expected every instant to find himself struggling in the water. He felt the sloop rise, as she was lifted on the crest of a tremendous billow, heard the shrieking of the wind through the shrouds, accompanied by a loud roar, as the wave broke upon the beach, and presently the Mystery’s keel grated harshly on the sand—Bob having safely piloted her behind a friendly point, and run her upon the shore, out of reach of the storm.